


And I fear, and I hope

by 99MillionMiles



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Different Reality, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Healing, M/M, No Emotional Manipulation, PETER PARKER IS NOT A TEENAGER, Peter Parker has PTSD, Physical Therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Quentin Beck Is A Good Guy, Quentin Beck is not Mysterio, Rehabilitation, alternate au, no power imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 04:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19863253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/99MillionMiles/pseuds/99MillionMiles
Summary: At first, he healed his body. Then his eyes. And now, slowly, soslowly, he's healing his soul.Maybe that's what Peter likes best about him. How slowly he goes, always, how he never pushes through the long, difficult process of traveling back to who Peter was and further away from who he'll never be again; how he waits, and hewaits, walking at same pace as Peter's. How he reaches for his hand, holds it in his, watches him with soft blue eyes and gives him the comfort he needs. How he gives, without taking.





	And I fear, and I hope

**Author's Note:**

> \+ Peter is 23 years old in this fanfic and Quentin is 34.
> 
> \+ The events of Spiderman: Far From Home have never happened in the universe this story is set in. 
> 
> \+ Quentin Beck is NOT a villain, nor Mysterio. He doesn't have any "powers". 
> 
> \+ The events of Infinity War, Endgame, Spiderman: Homecoming etcetera have happened.
> 
> Translation of the poem at the beginning was kinda taken from [here](http://www.lieder.net/get_text.html?TextId=109314/), although I changed the translation a bit because I didn't like it too much.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

_Pace non trovo e non ò da far guerra // I find no peace, and yet I make no war,_  
_e temo e spero; ed ardo e son un ghiaccio // and I fear, and I hope; and I burn, and I am ice;_  
_e volo sopra 'l cielo e giaccio in terra // and I fly above the sky and I fall to earth;_  
_e nulla stringo, e tutto 'l mondo abbraccio // and clutch at nothing, and embrace the world._

_\- Petrarca sonnet CXXXIV_

Peter doesn't remember when it ever got so _easy_.  
He can't recall when it exactly was that Quentin's hands traveled further down his arm, reaching for his hands, or when they moved down from his neck and trailed down his back. He doesn't remember when the gentlest of caresses was first stroked across his lips. He doesn't remember when he had started to believe it _could be_ real. He doesn't remember when he started to _want_ again.

In a different universe, in a different life, Quentin would have been a very different man. He would have betrayed him, tortured him, desperately attempted to _break_ him. And maybe, just maybe, there's still something cruel and twisted inside of him, and it lives in Peter too.

But not in this plane of existence, is what Peter would think if he knew. Not here, and not now. 

In this universe, Quentin has his machines and Peter has his demons. And so far, it's like everything is perfectly the same, but it's not. Because Quentin builds and builds and builds, but he doesn't destroy. He creates. He _repairs_.

In this life, Quentin was never robbed of his project by a man who called his creation his own. He was never twisted by anger; the ugly, hungry thing living inside of him – and in Peter, and in Tony Stark too, and in each human being on the planet – never had to wake up from its peaceful slumber. It stayed asleep, and dozed and dreamed serenely on its little isle of flaw, never to be awakened.

Peter, however, hasn't been as lucky.

Perhaps it's the curse of the hero, and the echo of words written long ago still is to be heard by those who listen. Not that Peter would know of Hector or Achilles, different sides of the same coin, and there would be so much to say about that, too – but that discussion is for another day, or maybe for a different universe altogether. In _this_ universe, the only heroes Peter can look up to are the ones that are gone. That have been _long_ gone, leaving him to collect the pieces that are left.

It is no Greek tragedy, or Shakespearean drama. It's Peter's life, and sometimes when heroes crumble they don't make any noise. Sometimes, they need help.

And sometimes, they actually get it.

Peter comes to rest in his arms, and it almost seems enough. There's still much to do, much to fight against, much to lose and much to gain. But it's good. It's _good_.

At first, he healed his body. Then his eyes. And now, slowly, so _slowly_ , he's healing his soul.

Maybe that's what Peter likes best about him. How slowly he goes, always, how he never pushes through the long, difficult process of traveling back to who Peter was and further away from who he'll never be again; how he waits, and he _waits_ , walking at same pace as Peter's. How he reaches for his hand, holds it in his, watches him with soft blue eyes and gives him the comfort he needs. How he gives, without taking.

When they assigned Quentin to him, Peter wasn't happy. At all. He didn't need any fixing; some happiness, maybe, but he had his friends for that. He had MJ, and Ned, and May, and the million good wishes people blessed him with when he saved them, their things, their dogs and their lives. He used to think that, with time, that would somehow be enough. That he wouldn't need anything else; that one day he'd wake up, see the mirror smile back at him – and how cliche is that? – and sometime, somehow, _that_ would be his fixing. 

But they wouldn't listen to him – and maybe, just for this one time, they took the right decision for Peter's own benefit. A man with black hair and blue eyes was thrust into his life, whether Peter was happy with it or wasn't, and at first Peter wanted to hate him. Wanted to _loathe_ him, to be able to scream at him and yell at him and shout at him and tell him that he didn't need him, didn't need any _goddamned_ fixing, because he didn't. He didn't. He didn't.

_You don't_ , is what Quentin always tells him. _Don't need any fixing. Just a bit of maintenance, like we all do._ And most times, Peter will smile lazily up at him and nuzzle his chest, waiting for the familiar warmth of his arms to enfold him once again.

He started as Peter's personal physiotherapist, but also as a personal therapist of some sort. He had used his hologram therapy on him, helping him see his demons from up close, build them out of air and electric impulses and ugly memories, see how they weren't so scary after all when they took them apart piece by piece, electrical impulse by electrical impulse. When Peter could finally see how he had fought them once, and could do it again. How he could win, and be the one to rest untouched after the fight.

He had taken him back to the places he once loved, with the people he once loved. Good memories and oceans, and all that was green and all that was safe. Had massaged his muscles after a training, untying the knots in his back and shoulders, taking a little of the weight of the world off his exhausted mind through his body.

They didn't use to talk much. A few words at every beginning of a new day of therapy, some greetings, some questions. It wasn't Quentin's job, to ask and to speak. He couldn't, still can't, really relate to him; has never worn a cape, except maybe that one time at Halloween. _When I was, at some point, younger than you_ , he says now, an easy joke and an even easier smile. And Peter rolls his eyes, chuckles anyway, holds his hand.

But Peter doesn't really need him to be able to relate to his experiences. He needs him to understand, to at least _try_ to. To not surprise him with some sudden, unannounced movement, to not grab him by the neck or by his left calf or by his right shoulder. To never joke about threats, or feeling pain, or being afraid. To give him _time_. Time to heal and time to trust. Time to stay silent, when he doesn't want to talk. Time to talk, when he doesn't want to stay silent.

The questions Quentin used to ask him in the beginning were the only ones Peter needed, anyway. And his words, the only ones Peter wanted to hear. _Got that street in Queens you wanted_ , he would say, activating his holograms and building the houses, the cars, the people, out of plain air. Breathing life into the destroyed ruins of Peter's childhood memories, burned down by enemies and dust. _Anything looking off? I can make it more accurate, if something doesn't look like it did._

Sometimes, at the end of the day, he would smile and pat Peter's left shoulder. _You did good_ , he would say, even if he wasn't his therapist. Well, not that kind of therapist. _It was cool, seeing you jump around and make backflips look easy._

And Peter would breath out an inner sigh of relief at having his body spared of a flinch, take note of the way Quentin would telegraph each of his movements before actually touching him and _remember_ where to put his hands, what to avoid, what to say. _Sorry for the drones_ , he would answer, sheepish and a little red on the cheeks. _Didn't mean to break one again. Forgot to keep myself from actually hitting them. They're going to refund you for those, right?_

Quentin would shrug in that careless, caring way of his, and simply grab his left shoulder a little tighter. _Yeah, sure. Don't worry about it._

Sometimes Peter would ask _Quentin_ how he was. If he had slept well, if he had had lunch already or if he wanted to grab some coffee before starting. And Quentin would usually smile, nod, shake his head. Wouldn't normally tell him yes when Peter wanted to take a break, too loyal to his assignment, too serious and professional, until he did.

_Last day today_ , he had said at some point. _Told me you're good to go. That I did everything I could to help you out, so... I guess this is goodbye._

And then he had smiled despite the sadness in his blue eyes, and handed him one of his devices. _Don't let its size fool you_ , he had told him, with kindness in his voice and on his face. _This guy can project a 3D hologram as big as a room. It's not much, but it can take you back to that playground you seem to be so fond of._

And Peter's breath had caught in his throat. _It actually works with another one,_ Quentin had added quietly, lowering his blue eyes for a moment. _But I haven't finished it yet. I'll have it sent to you when it's done, is that alright? I just need to –_

_I can help you do it_ , Peter had said, before he could even stop the words from leaving his mouth. _I'm – I'm good with technology. Really good. It would be – maybe I could, huh... learn a few things, to. If you want to. If you'll teach me._

And Quentin had smiled, nodded, said _yes_.

*

Peter wakes up in Quentin's lab, until he doesn't.

Today, he wakes up on the couch in Quentin's living room. He fell asleep on it yesterday night, after Quentin got ridiculously excited about the upcoming episode of his favorite series and Peter hadn't been able to refrain himself from asking sheepishly if he could stay for a movie night. He had planned to go back home right after the end of the episode, but he has evidently not done a very good job on staying awake during the movie.

The smell of eggs and coffee coming from the kitchen tells him Quentin isn't even angry at him for falling asleep. Peter realizes he has something on his forehead; reads the post-it he that must have been there for hours, and smiles quietly at himself. _Good morning, sleepyhead_ , it reads, in Quentin's messy handwriting. _Breakfast's in the kitchen. Gone for a run. Make yourself at home._

Peter wishes he were a better man, but he drinks his coffee in one go and doesn't even spare a thought to the eggs, curious as he is to explore Quentin's house for the very first time. He hasn't ventured in any other room than the kitchen, the living room and the bathroom, and the first floor of Quentin's house is almost a complete mystery to him. He has been in Quentin's underground lab a hundred times already, working with him at his devices and chatting the day away when he doesn't have to go to university and Quentin doesn't have to be _someone else's_ therapist, but has never really been able to roam freely into the house. He does now, too curious to resist, and then sits on the balcony and thinks of the last seven months.

Slowly but surely, his health has improved. He still has triggers, anxiety, fears and bad days – and he'll most likely _always_ have them – , but he's gotten better. He _feels_ better. There are days, now, when he won't jump when somebody grabs his arm to get his attention. When he won't have his sleep ruined by nightmares. When he will be able to go through sunrise to sunset with a feeling of calm washing over him. Things he had never hoped for before. Things he hadn't known he could ever _have_ once again.

It was a series of factors working in his favor, not only Quentin's doing, and Peter knows it. But he also knows that his healing process would have been, would _still be_ , much harder without him. He knows he doesn't _need_ Quentin's presence in his life, that he isn't _necessary_ for him to have a good day or a good life, but still. He is, by all means, important. And Peter knows this, too. 

He only hopes that he feels as important to Quentin as Quentin feels for him.

He comes back home less than half an hour later, red in the cheeks for exertion and a bit sweaty. Peter thinks of the many, many times Quentin saw him in much a worse state, both mentally and physically, and almost smiles at the late payback. 

( _If_ he can call that payback. Which he most likely can't.)

“Hey,” Quentin says, jumping first when he sees him and then smiling wide at him. “You're awake. Slept well?”

“Better than I have in the last two weeks,” Peter says with a nod, satisfied to know that he's telling the truth. “Couch's real comfortable. Haven't slept in a couch like that since I turned nineteen years old and passed out in some place in Manhattan.” 

Quentin chuckles and opens the fridge, searching for a water bottle and finding it. “Sounds like an interesting story,” he muses, before downing the entire content of the bottle in one go. “Got time to tell it?”

Peter enters the kitchen again, leaving the balcony behind his back, and looks up at the clock on the wall. “Class is in two hours,” he says, shrugging. “I can stay another hour at most, if you'll have me.”

“Of course I'll have you,” Quentin replies, tone of voice gentle and amused at the same time. “I'm a bit disgusting, though. Wait for me? I'll take a shower so quickly you won't even notice I'm gone.”

Peter chuckles, nods and waits for him to be back while he texts Ned and MJ. He also calls May to let her know he's alive, even if he hasn't been living with her for three years already. He moved in a flat close to the university he's attending, sharing his space with Ned and MJ whenever she comes over. 

Ned doesn't sound worried over text, but Peter knows he must have been concerned. He explains that he didn't know he would end up falling asleep on Quentin's couch, and Ned only sends a string of winking emojis in response. He's the worst friend in the world.

Quentin comes back before he can text Ned back, and Peter quickly hides his phone. Quentin laughs, clearly knowing something's up just by the look on Peter's face, but graciously decides not to comment. They chat until Peter has to take a shower and hurry back to university for his first class of the day, and Peter wishes – he so, so _wishes_ – Quentin will kiss him goodbye before he goes, but he doesn't. (Peter wouldn't be ready for that anyway, but still. It's a good wish.) He pats him gently on his left shoulder, instead, and tells him to come over whenever he wants to. 

Which Peter does once, and then twice, and then again. And again, and once more, and again and again, until he's basically living at Quentin's place more than he is at his own.

He's lying on Quentin's couch when MJ sends him a text that says _Ned told me u r living with your hot physiotherapist. Came to play video-games and had to co-op with Ned's sorry ass instead of yours. Fuck u_ , but he doesn't do much else than laugh and tell her he's sorry before going back to desperately trying to lay his head on Quentin's thighs, to let his head fall on Quentin's shoulder – right or left, it doesn't matter to Quentin –, to maybe even thinking of _kissing him_ someday.

Not today, and not today, and certainly not today. Tomorrow, maybe, but not this day. _Today_ , though.

Today is a great day. They go for a run together after Peter wakes up on Quentin's couch, as he often does, and Quentin trips on a rock like an idiot and goes falling down to the concrete, _hard_.

He laughs even as his sweatpants are dirty with blood at the knee, and accepts the hand that Peter's offering him while telling him that he's had much worse. If he were with anyone else, Peter's heartbeat would have gone crazy at the sight of blood, and maybe he would have looked around him with a panicked expression on his face and lost his mind. Not with Quentin, though. Because Quentin smiles, and laughs, and grabs him by his left shoulder when trying to stand up, asks him if he's okay even if _he_ is the one who just fell.

“I'm alright,” Peter says, a bit shaken anyway. “Let's go home.”

They go home – they go to Quentin's place, that at some point became _home_ in Peter's mind as well. Quentin leans on him a little, but assures him that he really isn't hurt. Peter helps him with his knee; the wound is pretty tiny, at least in comparisons to the ones that Peter has gotten to see and to experience ever since he was fourteen and suddenly threw into danger – _by Tony_ , a little voice says in his mind –, but there's a quite surprising amount of blood all around it. Quentin tries to take Peter's hands away from it, tells him to wait in the living room, but Peter won't. He wants to stay here, by Quentin's side. Wants to see his blood, and know that it was just a silly morning run that caused it to be there. 

No enemies. No threats. Nothing to worry about, nothing to get palpitations about, nothing to scream and shout and cry about until his throat is hoarse and his eyes are dry and his heart is aching.

“Let me,” he says stubbornly, taking the wet cloth that Quentin's pressing to his knee from his hands.

Quentin might be eleven whole years older than Peter, sure, but he's still much weaker than him. Thirty-four, in good shape, _but_ not a hero. Not an Avenger, and not stronger than any other human; not burdened with fatigue and moral imperatives, not weighed down by the weight of the world. He's fragile, and he bleeds, and he has so little scars. He knows Peter's ones, though, and he isn't afraid of them. Has seen him at his worst, flinching away from his touch; comforted him at his weakest, wide-eyed and scared, and perhaps, just _perhaps_ , loved him at his angriest.

The thing is, he never _had_ to. He hadn't before, when his job was only to keep his holograms in the air and to massage mobility back into his muscles, and he hasn't to now; not when Peter sometimes puts his head in his hands – because of something some tv show character said that sent him back on the same ground that Thanos stood on, or because of some sudden noise when he's sleeping or laughing or finally _living_ , or because, because, because –, not when Peter sometimes wakes up shaking from a horrible nightmare, not when Peter asks him weakly to not touch him until he'll be feeling better or screams at him angrily to get away from him.

And Quentin still lets him, still lets him tend to his wound. Maybe he senses how bad Peter needs to be the one to do the healing, this time, how much he _has_ to do this to feel a little less broken himself. To give back at least an ounce of how much he feels Quentin has given to him, to fix him, or, well – to _maintain_ him.

“Maintenance work,” he mumbles. He lifts his eyes, and catches Quentin's ones just in time to see them crinkle with a smile. 

He's known him for longer than half a year, and still. _Still_ , they catch him by surprise. Peter looks at those eyes – so big, so bright, so kind, and wonders. How could someone with such eyes ever betray him?

In another universe, of course, the words never said echo through a dream and halfway through a nightmare. Another life, where they're enemies, where maybe they _wouldn't_ be enemies if only Tony Stark hadn't ruined them both. Stealing childhoods and projects away as if they amounted to nothing. Not really knowing how to communicate with people, only machines, the only friends he ever had – and not justifiable still.

Sometimes Peter thinks of his monsters, and wonders. Wonders who he would be, had Tony not ruined him so young. Had life not asked him to be who he had to become. Had the universe spared him, maybe reached him at an older age, allowed him to spend his youth in peace and happiness and not have him wear a suit and a broken mask, ever since he was fourteen.

Had things been different.

It's no use crying over the past, and Peter knows this, but sometimes he can't help it. Sometimes his demons dance all around him, no grace in their movements, no words on their mouths – echoes, perhaps, but mostly memories. His body remembers better than his mind does. And it has scars and triggers and sometimes it begs Peter to stop, but he doesn't. He can't.

He can do _this_ , though. This little thing. Press this wet cloth to Quentin's wounded knee, circle his calf gently with his hand – the right one, the left one, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter to Quentin –, lift up his gaze and meet Quentin's clear blue eyes. And think, with some kind of endless stupor, _I'm safe_. He's safe, with the weakest human, with the gentlest eyes. _I'm safe_.

There are monsters. They live inside of Peter, loud and unforgiving, amused by his never-ending mourning. He used to cry over Tony's death. Blame Cap for leaving him here, without his guidance, to collect whatever was left of the justice he used to be so fond of. Try to team up with Barnes, or the shell of a man that he's been ever since. Spend some time with Barton, even. Ask himself why his kids could have a happy family, a happy ending, toys and smiles and no ugly memory, and he couldn't.

There are monsters. There are.

But Quentin's hand lands on the back of his own, and his thumb strokes his skin gently. Peter comes back to earth; he hadn't realized he had stopped moving. He's pressing too hard against Quentin's broken flesh, and he must be hurting him. But he looks up at him, the sad furrow of his brows, the softness of his gaze – the _anger_ in the tightness of his jaw. 

Strangely enough, it doesn't scare him. Doesn't remind him of the hatred in Thanos' eyes, of the hateful sneer on Vulture's mouth, and certainly not of the rage on Mysterio's face – because that is another life, another time he will never remember because he will never _experience_ it. Won't dream of it, won't hear of it, won't ever live _through_ it. In this life, Quentin was spared. And Peter wasn't.

Maybe Peter would understand his reasons, _Mysterio_ 's reasons, although he would still judge them. Maybe he would feel the same quiet sense of betrayal that poisons his blood when he thinks of Tony, of Steve – the ones who left him there to die. The one who threw him to his demons, and the one who didn't save him from them. They're both guilty. Peter could play a game of who's _guiltier_ , but he doesn't want to. He already knows the answer, but he isn't ready to face it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

His right shoulder aches.

“I'm sorry,” he says, almost inaudibly, relieving Quentin of the hard pressure on his wound. But he's actually sorry for the quiet fury on Quentin's mouth, for that corner of Quentin's lips turned down, for the slow rising and falling of Quentin's chest as _he_ aches and Peter doesn't, not now. He says he's sorry, moves his hand away, but it's not his lack of delicacy that he's apologizing for. He's sorry for turning Quentin into this ugly, angry thing, who wants to avenge him. He's seen that look already. 

He sees the man Quentin could have been, the one he became in some parallel universe, even if for different reasons. And hates it. Quentin is the one thing worth smiling for, or _one_ of the many good things worth smiling, fighting, _dying_ for in his life, and Peter never wants him to ache the way he does. Doesn't want him to take his pain away and bring it on himself, turn it into some horrendous beast that kills and kills and steals away everything, pain and love alike, because that's what happened to Peter. People – _the monster_ , he thinks, if only briefly – thought they were doing what was best for the world, and maybe they did. Maybe. _Maybe_ , Peter repeats to himself. They though Peter's life was worth wasting, ruining, stealing away. Maybe it was. Maybe. _Maybe_.

“Don't,” Peter says, and it comes out as a prayer. He doesn't feel like he does much else than beg, these day. _Don't let it twist your face like that. Don't let it make you into something that you aren't._

Quentin sighs, and he's never going to be the man he could have been. Won't ever have to wear a cape, and Peter would smile and shed a few tears if he knew. If he knew Quentin was spared from that ugly, poisonous desire for revenge, never to fall its victim. “I'm sorry,” he says, the man who's better than he could have been, and doesn't stop stroking the back of Peter's hand. “I didn't mean to.”

“I know,” says Peter, with a sigh. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wishes Quentin weren't as attuned to his emotions as he is, as empathetic as he is, as capable of telling how Peter feels just by the amount of times he blinks as he is. “It's alright.”

Had he been another man, someone else, someone less broken, Peter would have wished for Quentin to kiss him right then, like he was able to do when Quentin was still his crush and not so much more than just that. Perfect distance; perfect blue in Quentin's eyes, defeated and _soft_ at the same time, so soft that Peter could jump right into it and let himself sink, sink, sink away, sink and _drown_ away from himself, somewhere where not even him can reach himself. Let _go_. Stop worrying, thinking, existing. Travel across all the parallel universes there are, never meet the man Quentin could be, find the plane of existence where _Peter_ is all in one piece, too. Somewhere where they can both be happy, be whole, be untouched. Unbroken. Some life where they don't have to fight and fix and do it over and over again. Some universe where he's never left alone to die, and Quentin's never left alone to weep, where they don't have a care in the world. Some place where they're both spared from mourning, fighting, collecting what's left of them from the ground. Some life where Peter can be a little more selfish, and Quentin a little less angry. Where they can smile, and not think of who they could have been if things had gone differently.

Does that life exist? Do their existences ever link to one another like that? Is it possible to be happy _and_ to be heroes?

There's some old story to tell about that, but Peter still doesn't know about it.

What he _does_ know about, however, is the gentleness of Quentin's fingertips. The kindness of his smile, the softness of his eyes. The way he looks when he cries, that one time when he had seen _Peter_ crying and someway, somehow, hadn't been able to hold back his own tears. So empathetic, and maybe that's one of the things Peter loves the most about him. Almost fifteen years of working in the field, though, Quentin had confessed, and it had never happened before. He had never been the one who had needed to be _held_.

Before softening again, his eyes tell Peter the words that his mouth won't say. _If I could_ , they breath, moving and slithering like something alive, like something poisonous that's changing its shape, _if I could, I would kill them all. Kill everything in our way that has ever dared to hurt you._

_But if you did_ , Peter says with his eyes, _you wouldn't be the man I am learning to love._

Peter knows he's a monster, too, in his own way. Killed the father of the girl he swore to love, if only for one night or one semester, made her half of what he is. Taken something, robbed her of the person she though her father to be, stolen the love from her heart and replaced it with horror. How could she have ever loved someone that horrible, she must have though. How could I ever let him wrap his arms around me and tell me he loved me. Monsters can't love. They don't know _how_ to.

Perhaps, Peter is no different than his demons.

“Hey,” Quentin says quietly, and gets him away from his mind before it's too late for the second time. He takes the gentlest hold of his chin, lifts it just barely so their eyes can meet. “You with me?”

“I'm with you,” Peter replies, and nods. “I'm with you,” he says once again, just to hear himself say it. 

Quentin lets go of his chin, strokes the hard skin of his left shoulder. It's hard, it is, because Peter's a warrior and he's a hero and he can never be happy, but there are no knots in his flesh because Quentin has stroked them all away. “Good,” Quentin says gently, and smiles down at him. “Want to cuddle?”

It starts like that, like a joke. Some stupid lines from a movie they once saw, where the protagonists would make out during every dramatic situation. Finding comfort in each other's bodies, maybe, or easy profits for the company that shot the movie. Peter remembers the pink of the girl protagonist's bra, the way her movie boyfriend was all over her when she had been crying just mere moments before. Remembers to have though, _that's stupid. I could never have someone touch me like that after crying. Not so carelessly, like I was just some piece of meat to devour. Not that way. Maybe not ever._

Silly thoughts of a dramatic boy, perhaps, or some real life lessons that the characters of that cheap love story wouldn't ever have to learn. What a blessing, Peter would think, if he could allow himself to busy himself with those thoughts. But he can't; and Quentin had stopped the movie while the couple on-screen was still making out, and had asked him if he wanted to try and make some pizza to take his attention away from the scene.

_I have some tomato sauce, some cheese and some flour_ , he had said, shrugging as if Peter hadn't been just _this_ close to a crisis, and maybe not even knowing how relieved he had felt to be stopped in time. _How hard can it be?_

Easy. Easy, easy, unbelievably easy, like tearing down the walls and setting the house on fire, like ending up ordering take-away and talking about a dog or two that Quentin wants to adopt. Easy, easy, incredibly easy, lying down and _not_ make out. Feeling the weight of Quentin's eyes fixed on his, the warmth of him by his side, the planes and the curves and the bones of his – weak, fragile, human – strong, solid, human – body next to his own. Not having to say a single word. Knowing he could turn around, find those eyes and those lips, that smile in his gaze and on his mouth.

Turning.

“Hi,” Quentin chuckles, easy, so easy, finding his hand and tangling their fingers together. There's no blood on his knee, only a scar that's four of five months old and still has Peter's imprint. “Falling asleep?”

“No,” Peter says, and offers him a smile. He's been doing that a lot more, lately. Re-learning the curve of his own mouth, wondering what the curve of _Quentin's_ mouth would feel like. Not finding it tiring, to lift up the corners of his lips. Not having to force it. Letting it go, letting it be, with that same sort of reckless abandon that's not quite truly reckless yet, but maybe just close to. 

It's enough, it's more than enough, more than Peter thought possible. He holds Quentin's hand tighter, closer, lifts it up and down to rest on his stomach. Closes his eyes, and breathes. 

He was once cut open just below his bellybutton, punched and yelled at, ripped apart once again and forever. He covers Quentin's hand with his own, not ready to give up control, but ready to give up _some thing_. Ready to prove to himself that he has faith, that he can still _have_ faith. 

Quentin tries to take his hand away, slowly, so slowly. He has seen Peter's scar – not that it's hard to miss, big and deep as it is. Peter doesn't remember much about it, if not the shocking initial pain and the desperate will to protect the people that pushed him through and up and _against_ it, against the enemy and against himself, ignoring the pain as best as he could until he felt himself bleeding to death and still didn't stop until he fell to the ground.

The _after_ is a little easier to recall. He was surrounded by doctors and nurses, with no hand to hold but the ghosts of two different people with his same eyes, his same nose on their faces, holding on tight to his fingers. Whispering something sweet and reassuring to him, maybe, he can't really remember. But he _does_ remember how good it all felt, to let go. How painless it was, how weightless he felt, flying and living for once without suffering. No triggers and no ugly memories, no specters of who he could have been. Floating, empty, unbroken. Something whole and non-existing at the same time. Like going back inside his mother's womb, and wondering if someone could ever love him like that again. Ready to go.

What a wonderful thing, to close his eyes.

He doesn't say anything, but tightens his hold on Quentin's hand. Keeps it there on his scars, the way he'll never allow anyone ever again, perhaps not even him. But he needs it right now. Needs to feel the weight of Quentin's love on the flesh that was once torn open. Needs to feel Quentin fixing him, sewing him closed once again, repairing what has been broken. Put Quentin's hands where he's most vulnerable, and not feel afraid.

He links their fingers together, and can feel Quentin controlling his weight so he doesn't press down on his stomach, and knows that there's someone who will. Someone who will love him like that, like his mother once did, in a different way. Maybe, he thinks. _Maybe_ , he knows.

He does it again. And again. And _again_. Lets the weight of Quentin's hand rest on his stomach, even if it's scary and his breath itches and it's a constant struggle against his own mind. Even if his skin burns and his flesh rots and his heart aches. Not for Quentin's benefit, but for his own. So that he knows he has power over his scars, so that he knows that he still owns his body. Of course he does, he thinks, and he smiles. Of course he does.

Someone else would stroke the scarred skin of his stomach, assume that their kiss would fix every problem and take away any pain. Think they somehow miraculously could have the power to do something that Peter hasn't been able to do on his own in almost ten years, like fallen gods or almighty healers. And they would be wrong, because they wouldn't be Quentin.

They would leave some sour sort of aftertaste in Peter's mouth, something that turns everything he eats into poison and smoke and dust. Peter has felt it before. Stared at the floor as he ate, wide-eyed and defeated at the same exact time, scared and hopeless at the same exact time. Damp and dry and empty and thoughtless. Wishing, in some faraway place in his mind, that it could always be like this. Just a shell of a man, the way Barnes has become ever since Cap left him to never return, the way Tony has to have felt at some point. But it doesn't make them justifiable, is what Peter has learn to realize. Not justifiable, _not justifiable_. Guilty, because they have left him here to die, and haven't looked back for a moment.

Peter wonders when it was that they became monsters.

Quentin doesn't. Not in this life, at least. He doesn't turn into one of his demons; he doesn't stroke the scarred skin of his stomach, not even through his shirt. He watches Peter closely, carefully, and smiles when Peter's eyes meet his own. Rolls on his side when Peter smiles back, a bit weakly, and lifts his other arm even if it's uncomfortable so that he can stroke across Peter's left shoulder. And Peter feels like crying, but not for the reasons he would expect to.

Quentin frowns for a second, but it's brief and reassuring on its own because it shows that he cares. “Okay?” He asks, and Peter nods.

“A bit overwhelmed,” he says, because it's true. “Don't want you to stop, though.”

Quentin has cut one of his fingertips with a sharp piece of paper earlier today, and Peter can feel the edges of his little wound scraping right across his own skin. He's wearing a thin shirt today, one that leaves bare most of his shoulders, and it's good. Maybe it's wrong, but it's somehow cathartic to feel Quentin's wounds scratching against his own. There's a little scar beneath his own fingertips, too, one that Peter got when he was still a child and ran stupidly against a mirror, and it makes him smile for some reason. He breathes out, breathes in, in tune with Quentin and in tune with Quentin's body, that turns when his turns and stills when his stills. Keeps their fingers linked together, resting on the monsters he has tamed, and allows his body to sink and to drown. It's so easy, so improbably easy. _Like tearing down the walls_ , he says to his demons. _Like setting the house on fire._

He can't see Quentin smiling, not with his eyes closed, but he knows.

He _knows_.

And then it's today, or a new day, that tomorrow will be yesterday. Quentin's wound has healed, and has left no scar behind. His fingertips still move across Peter's shoulder – his left one – , up and down, gently, slowly, and it's still cathartic even if there's no open skin to rub against his scarred one. Still good, still _safe_. And there are still monsters, but there's also Quentin still, and it feels like enough. Like it could, with time, _really be_ enough. Maybe, thinks Peter. Maybe.

Today Quentin moves closer, just a little closer, not fast or predatory or unsure, but _gentle_. He telegraphs each of his movements, and gives Peter all the time he needs to move away. Looks him in the eye, and slowly – so _slowly_ – wraps an arm around his hip, away from his scar. Doesn't tighten his hold, but strokes him so gently that Peter feels something break and then build inside himself. So tenderly that it feels like he's reaching places inside of him that Peter didn't even know existed, like he's fixing his bones and his veins and his mind from the inside. Like he's proving to Peter that there's still something good in the world, some touch that is still worth receiving. 

Thing is, Peter has grown so accustomed to Quentin's hands on his skin that he doesn't even _flinch_.

He closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out. Doesn't quite open them for a while, but he watches Quentin from between his lashes like when he was a child staring at the sun from behind closed eyelids. And _sees_ ; sees the open softness of Quentin's gaze, the devotion and the love and the affection. And _wants_.

He doesn't quite know what to do, with this new, overwhelming new wave of desire. Not to touch, or to own, or even to kiss, because it's still too early for his body to want any of that. He could push himself through it, obviously, but he would regret it. No; he doesn't want any of that, not yet, and he's sure of it. Maybe not ever. But he wants this, he _wants_ this, this wonderful feeling of having Quentin's hands on his body and not feel his bowels and his guts threaten to spill out of his stomach – _again_ – at every foreign touch. His own, it is still a problem. He doesn't trust himself, doesn't _love_ himself, enough to accept his own touch the same way he allows Quentin's to be. But, maybe, with time. And if time isn't enough, then love maybe will be. Maybe he'll wake up someday, and realize that all of his pain has dissolved. That it was some ugly, twisted dream of some sort, something to laugh about in front of a coffee and with Quentin's eyes in his own. Some other life, that he was finally spared from.

Dreams of young boys, naturally. Silly, silly delusions of youth, never to be real. Nothing more than poems and air and all that is dust. Not that poetics have ever been his forte, but it's what he would think if he was someone else. 

Today he wakes up in Quentin's bed; stands up and drags himself to the kitchen on sleepy, unsteady feet. Makes some eggs, checks the time on the clock, yawns as he scratches his right calf even if it's the left one that's bothering him. 

Quentin's voice reaches him before his hands do, and Peter's forever grateful that he has _forgotten_ to feel grateful. “Hey,” Quentin murmurs, sleepy and soft even when he breathes, kissing the back of Peter's neck and stroking his hips. “Slept well?” 

“Better than I have in the last two weeks,” says Peter, with some weird sense of deja-vu accompanying his words. And, this time around, even a smile. “What about you?” 

“I've slept better,” Quentin says jokingly, and Peter chuckles. Feels Quentin nuzzle the soft patch of skin between his shoulders, just a bit off to the left, feels him more than he hears him sigh quietly against his shirt and hold him tighter into his arms. Easy, so easy.

Peter pats Quentin's broad, gentle hands, linked just between his chest and stomach, careful not to brush against his scar, and stifles another yawn in order to smile instead. “Want to go for a run?” Quentin asks, voice still hoarse, lips still warm with sleep.

“No,” Peter says. “I'm good where I am.”

He feels Quentin smile against his skin.

And he turns. He turns around, and _almost_ kisses him; lets his head fall to Quentin's chest instead, lets himself be finally held. 

Quentin hums gently and rests his head on top of Peter's, slowly rocking him right and left as if they're on open seas. Like one of his holograms, but so much better. Like he can take him somewhere else, sometime else, only through his love.

“It's been a year,” says Peter, whispering against the soft fabric of Quentin's jumper. “Remember?”

Quentin lowers his head to look at him with his big, blue, beautiful eyes, the same as they were when Peter first met him. “I do,” he says quietly. Presses a kiss into his hair, promises something against his temple, and holds him _just_ a little tighter.

Healing means many things. For Peter, it means being able to be held without wanting to escape. For someone else, it might just be a word like many other. For Barton's kids, it most likely means watching dad's skin grow back across his knees or his elbows – because they had the life they had, the kind of life Peter will envy them forever. Because they were never left here to die; because they were brought back. Saved. Because they can let themselves be held by the man who has killed and murdered and slaughtered blindly, without any real reason, and still love him. Sounds familiar, it does.

But Peter is tired, he is _so_ tired. Let him have this, the way other kids have dolls and arrows and a body that is only theirs to own. Let him have this, the way fictional couples in tv shows have their beds and their kisses and their heated up make-out sessions. Let him have this, the way his parents once had it.

“I'm tired,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling the weight of the world crash back on his shoulders. “Let's go back to bed.”

Quentin hums, nods his head and doesn't let him go for a second. Peter doesn't move, either. And they stay here, on their feet in Quentin's sunny kitchen, each with their thoughts. Peter doesn't think it will be long, until he finally kisses him. 

He is not wrong.

He's not wrong in the same way he isn't wrong when he knows that he will always love the man that Quentin is in this universe, the good, gentle person that he has grown up to be as a child and remained as an adult. The one Peter allows to hold him, the one that he wants forever. The one Peter sees laughing in front of the most ridiculous hologram that he has ever seen, a childhood memory Quentin's recreated for himself when he was still a beginner, looking very much off and very much loved by its creator. Peter takes Quentin's hand, cups the back of his neck, and _wants_. What a wonderful thing, to want. To desire Quentin's lips on his own, the curve of his smile, the soft of his mouth. To want his laugh on his tongue, his voice on the plush of his skin. And then something more, and something more still, and _so_ much more than before. 

But Quentin takes it slow, and kisses him so gently and carefully that Peter can't help but sink and drown and, for the first time, reemerge. Back to the surface, slowly, so slowly. Back to the person he didn't think he could ever be again, slowly, so _slowly_. 

It sure is what Peter likes best about him –, is what Peter would think between kisses if he wasn't as gone as he is for his mouth. How slowly he goes, always, how he never pushes through the long, difficult process of traveling back to who Peter was, and traveling further towards who he'll be; and Peter could cry, he really could. Shed a few tears of relief, because he can still have this. _He can still have this._ He can still feel, and _want_ , and be stronger than his demons.

They're here, his monsters. Ready to jump at his throat when Quentin will lose himself in their kisses, too, when he'll graze Peter's right shoulder and pull on his hair, when he'll grab his left calf to bring his leg around his hips and forget, forget, be like everyone else, because nobody can ever possibly be _that_ perfect. He'll touch his scars, take everything from him, and when he does – 

But he doesn't.

His touches are careful and gentle. Slowly, so slowly. Peter leans away from him, with no breath left in his lungs and the sudden, unexpected need to stop, because it's already so much. _Too_ much, so much that it would take so _little_ to break him.

He looks back at Quentin, brown eyes wide open and searching, and what he finds does not disappoint him. Quentin smiles, blissed out and ridiculous, not asking for more. Kisses his forehead and his hair and his cheeks, and Peter laughs and it's all so damn easy. _Easy_ like ending up ordering take-away, _easy_ like talking about a dog or two that Quentin wants to adopt. Easy like falling asleep, and having someone to love him like that.

Easy, easy, incredibly _easy_ ; lying down and _finally_ make out, like tv characters that don't have a care in the world, like kids who don't really want to take it too far because their parents could be home any time. Chuckling, and talking, and kissing, like they were never broken. 

Quentin reaches for his hair with his hand, smile soft and lazy on his mouth, eyes big and gentle and kind. His movements are slow and careful despite it all, and Peter moves away at the last second; adjusting his body so that Quentin's hand lands on his left shoulder instead than on his hair. He almost apologizes, so sorry for ruining their make-out session with his goddamn triggers, but Quentin doesn't leave him any time to. He kisses him, soft and delicate and loving, like he loves him with a love that goes beyond love. The sort of love that Peter could never believe in, nor wish for himself. The kind of love that isn't meant for monsters, or for hunters of demons. There's a thin line between fighting against villains and becoming one of them, and Peter fears and he hopes. He's walking, walking and running, never resting, until he does. Here. _Now_. When he moves away from Quentin's touch, and Quentin _still_ smiles. Kisses it all away. Gives, and gives, and _gives_ without taking. He has a bruise up on his arm, just below his shoulder, that Peter inadvertently gave him when he held him a bit too enthusiastically. Quentin had laughed, still laughs, and waits for it to go away.

As it does, slowly but surely, like many other bruises. They all fade away. 

Until one day, until _this_ day, today that tomorrow will be yesterday, Peter wakes up first. It's rare that he does; he's a night hawk – he didn't use to be one, before the nightmares came –, but yesterday he has gone to bed so early, has slept so _peacefully_ all night, that this time he sees the sun rising from behind the curtains. And it's beautiful. 

The sky is pink, and violet, and orange and _stunning_. It's somewhere behind the glass of their bedroom window, suddenly _so_ close. The sun shines already, bright and somehow unexpected. So gorgeous, so big, so blindingly _golden_.

Peter used to be triggered by it, too. Used to link the idea of the sun with what his father had told him once, when he was still alive; how the sun in Peter's doodles represented himself, the father figure in kids drawings, according to psychology. But now, he isn't. Not anymore.

He can look up to the sun, and see _just the sun_.

What a wonderful thing, to own his body and his mind.

He doesn't know for how long he looks out the window, quiet and amazed and blissfully _serene_. Not all of his pain has dissolved. It was never some ugly, twisted dream, something to laugh about in front of a coffee and with Quentin's eyes in his own. Not some other life, that he was finally spared from.

But it is _this_ life. They are _his_ monsters, that will forever follow him. Just, a little weaker. A little less scary. _His_ demons, to fight against and to tame. _His_ ghosts, to suppress and forget.

_This_ sun, rising up from the seas. _This_ day, starting right before his eyes.

Peter smiles, and hears the echo of some song long forgotten. Some song he used to listen to when he was younger, weaker, sadder. Before Quentin, and before the person he's grown to be next to him.

His monsters still hunt him. But he has so much joy to fight them with; so many happy memories to recall when some ugly picture comes back into his mind. No insecurities, no delusions. He knows. He _knows_ , and he belongs to himself. Of course he does.

Quentin moves in his sleep. Slowly, so slowly, he throws an arm across Peter's chest and mumbles something that Peter won't even try to understand. Slowly, so slowly, he lifts his head, and lets it fall on Peter's right shoulder.

He smiles in his sleep, and Peter smiles too.

There are still monsters, obviously. But not here, and not now, and not on his skin.

There are no monsters.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://99millionmilesaway.tumblr.com/). I hope you liked it.


End file.
